


Everything's Coming Up Rosie

by writer1



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Babysitter Sherlock Holmes, Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Hugs, Kissing, M/M, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Sentiment, Sexual Frustration, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:54:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29123754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writer1/pseuds/writer1
Summary: I wanted to do something where I could show Sherlock living with John again and helping raise Rosie after the death of Mary.  There is a slow sort of romance developing between the two but it revolves around or is furthered (whether accidentally or purposely) by the wee Rosie at different times.  Not sure how long this will be nor what will be added, so please, mind the rating.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 124





	1. Of Sleep and Dreams

Tired verdigris eyes droop closed of their own accord only to snap back open, focusing with an immense struggle and finally training on the blonde taking up space on the rug before him. Sherlock Holmes is exhausted. A strange thing considering he’s trained his body to run at full capacity with little to no sleep, but there’s something about this particular situation that exhausts him. Maybe it’s the fact that he can’t disappear to his mind palace. Nor can he work on an experiment. Nor can he take on a case. 

He instead watches with weary interest as the tiny blonde lifts her chubby hands to stack a square block over the circle hole and twist it to fit. Then with a piercing scream, she slams the block over the hole repeatedly in frustration causing Sherlock to swiftly sit up and stay her hand.

“No, Watson. You mustn’t get angry, but instead, move the object you desire to fit another location.” He guides little Rosie’s hand to the next hole and watches as her face lights up when the block easily slips in and falls through the slot. “See?” he smiles. Rosie claps.

Her pigtailed head then leans back and a huge yawn escapes. Sherlock’s chest aches with sentiment, but he pushes it back in favor of attempting to sleep. This is the fourth night he’s stayed up with the mini-Watson so John can be rested enough for work, and now, after so many days with nothing to intellectually stimulate him and John barring him from experimenting on his daughter, Sherlock is beginning to regret his kindness. 

The first night, he remembers he’d laid Rosie in her cot. The crying started immediately and woke a disgruntled John who’d offered to take over, but Sherlock shooed him back to bed with assurances all would be fine. He could do this. No problem. So Sherlock bit the bullet and stayed up watching children’s programs and playing with ponies on the sitting room rug. 

The second night, Sherlock placed her in her cot and sat in the room with her, gently singing the lullaby Mummy would sing to him and Mycroft. This did nothing. He played the same song on the violin. Nothing. He then began to read from one of his medical journals. This only made him tired. Eventually, Rosie got bored, understandably, and Sherlock once again retreated to the sitting room.

The third night, Sherlock made sure Rosie ate all her dinner, this logic coming from the fact that John always became drowsy on a full stomach. He then gathered all the soft, warm blankets he could find and piled them up in front of the tele where he placed the squirming toddler and told her to lie down. This time he would succeed. He wouldn’t be beaten. No. Not by a two-year-old. And so he settled himself in his chair and waited. 

Rosie watched television for hours. Sherlock couldn’t imagine how anyone could do such a thing. He looked up at the incredibly disproportionate brown dog in his superhero cape and frowned. What could she possibly find so stimulating? Sherlock drug tired eyes to the clock. It was a quarter past four in the morning (and three pots of tea later) and Sherlock felt near to bursting. He couldn’t wait any longer, so with the stealth of someone having far more sleep than him, he snuck off to the loo. After another peek at Rosie, he pulled the door closed and rushed to the toilet, head falling back in relish. Several minutes later, his shrivelled bladder thanked him. A zip and a wash and he sneaked back out only to find the blanket pile empty. 

“Oh . . . that’s no good.” 

A loud thump sounded to his right. His heart skipped a beat, immediately worrying that she’d taken a tumble down the stairs, but when he reached the hall both baby gates were intact and didn’t look breached. “Watson,” he whisper-yelled. A faint giggle sounded from upstairs and Sherlock lept the gate, taking the stairs two at a time only to pause at the cracked bedroom door. “Watson?” He pressed gently, knowing the hinges creaked. The patter of little feet skipped happily over the hardwood followed by another delirious giggle. Deciding to risk the noise, Sherlock jerked the door enough to squeeze through and, by the glow of the full moon, watched as a chunky little body pulled itself onto the bed and snuggled up to her father. 

“Right,” he whispered as he snuck around the foot of the bed, “Rosie, love, you need to come with Sherlock now and let daddy sleep.” But the tot merely rubbed her drooping eyes and scooched in closer to her dad. Sherlock froze as John snorted and grumbled in his sleep but thankfully didn’t wake as Rosie made herself comfortable. A great yawn and a smile graced her sweet face as she raised two stubby arms to make grabby hands at him. 

“Sher Sher.” 

So she wasn’t just yet ready to sleep, but this is as close Sherlock had gotten in days and he was determined not to lose this time. He attempted to stay put, hoping the familiar feel of her father would allow her to drift away, but Rosie wasn’t having it and again, repeated her demand with wriggling digits. This continued for another few minutes until the child started whining, so Sherlock made a quick decision and reached for her; better to retreat back to the sitting room and not disturb John. A grumpy John Sherlock could handle, but a Grumpy John _and_ an inexhaustible Rosie were far too much.

As he reached down to pull her into his arms she let out a very demanding, “No!” Sherlock immediately released the child and his eyes darted to John, who again snuffled and rolled toward his daughter, safely cradling her against him. Rosie looked up at him with glistening eyes, her tiny pink lips forming a perfect, heartbreaking pout. Sherlock frowned. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Watson was manipulating him. It wasn’t entirely impossible, despite her age and mental capacity and considering her parentage and Sherlock’s superior influence, she was still very capable of learning human gestures and emotional patterns for the sole purpose of personal gain, and yet . . . a small piercing cry made him blink back to the present.

“Mmuhhhh - Sher Sherrrrr . . .”

Sherlock panicked and, as quickly and as gently as he could, laid himself on the bed allowing her to grip his shirt in her tiny fists. “Shh, shh, shh, shhhhhh. It’s all right, Watson. Sherlock’s here. And daddy’s here.”

“And Rosie,” she said sleepily.

“And Rosie’s here. And now it’s time for sleep.”

And to his great delight, Rosie snuggled her compact face into his shirt and let out a loud snore, falling asleep immediately. Sherlock released a long and thankful breath he’d been holding and let his head fall back. Was half four in the morning too late to consider this a victory? Surely not. The girl was asleep. Mission accomplished. Sherlock smiled. 

When he opened his eyes, he noticed he was nearly face-to-face with John. Sherlock had to admit, it was strange. He couldn’t recall ever being this close to his friend and immediately felt a tickle of excitement. It wasn’t the first time he’d watched John sleep. Watched, he admitted, sounded a bit creepy but in his own defence, that was when John still had nightmares and Sherlock couldn’t help how truly fascinating it was to introduce different variables just before John fell asleep so he could sneak in and monitor the effects. 

Now, Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off his friend who lay peacefully next to him. He marvelled at how handsome John was as the shadows of London danced over his face. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought this and, not that he’d admit it, he often went out of his way to make John smile just to see his eyes lite up. After years of John graciously tolerating him, taking care of him, and trusting him, Sherlock knew just how blessed he was and, if permitted, he would immediately rethink his relationship with John and attempt to expand upon it. If only.

Rosie sighed and pawed at his shirt, once again pulling him from his thoughts. Sherlock glanced down at her and smiled. Gently, he loosened her grip and slid back from the bed, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead on the way up. He didn’t leave immediately but stood staring at the two people he loved most in all this world, thanking every known god for letting him have them. 

With a silent yawn, he headed downstairs and collapsed into his bed. Thirty minutes later, John’s alarm blared, followed shortly by a crying Watson.

The fourth night, Sherlock made the effort to tire Rosie out by filling her with food, playing hard in the sitting room, then snuggling her up in blankets and putting her down in front of the television. Just as the clock struck midnight, he reached down and pushed her thick blonde hair.

“Watson, would you like to play a game with Sherlock?”

Slate blue eyes lit up and a sharp squeal made his ears ring as two pale arms wrapped around his neck. He hugged the girl back, his large hands eclipsing her small frame, and his heart gave a lurch. She smelled of John. Of love and home and happiness. 

“All right, Watson,” he held her back and made eye contact, “this is how the game works. You and I are going to sneak into daddy’s room and lay down. Whoever is the quietest and doesn’t wake him up, wins.” Her little head bobbed eagerly and so Sherlock collected her hand and her blanket and led the way upstairs. Just outside the door, he could hear John snoring, so he turned and knelt before little Watson, eyes again serious. “Now remember, it is imperative we mustn’t wake him.”

“‘pare-tive,” Rosie agreed, putting a tiny finger to her lips and shushing quietly.

Sherlock nodded and ever so slowly opened the door. He and Rosie tiptoed around the bed and he lifted her up to settle under the covers. He then perched his own long, lanky body as close to the edge as he could get and laid there staring at Rosie who smiled at him mischievously. It took a good ten minutes but eventually, her eyelids began to droop and a small yawn forced its way from her. She was asleep. Moments later, Sherlock followed her into blissful slumber. 

  
  



	2. Relatively New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie directs a new before bed tradition.

Rosie has become demanding. Somewhere amidst Mrs. Hudson spoiling her, Sherlock entertaining her, John’s attitude rubbing off on her, and her new pre-school placating her, she’s turned into a little terror when she doesn’t get her way. At first, the threat of being sent off to Uncle Mycroft’s settled her down (both John and Sherlock regaling her with horror stories of how he likes to collect the fingers of naughty little children), but upon meeting Uncle Mycroft, the child immediately learned better and cunningly used her innumerable charms to win the rotten-hearted government official over. Now, Mycroft visits once every two weeks with a new toy or outfit. Mrs. Hudson bakes cakes. John gets to escape to work. Sherlock scowls. 

He’d consider himself lucky, if he believed in such nonsense, that they’ve all fallen quite nicely into a nontypical sort of family dynamic, so it only stands to reason that something new and uncertain happen when all of them least expect it. Tonight is that night.

It’s just before bedtime and John is finishing his last cup of tea. Sherlock stands facing the window composing while Rosie sits at John’s laptop, headphones on, watching a video on the metamorphosis of butterflies. Through his peripheral, Sherlock watches John yawn and stare into the ether. It’s been three weeks since he’d woken up in John’s room to an empty bed. Nothing has been said about the incident and Sherlock, having to repeat said incident in order to get any sleep, has made sure to always let himself out right after Rosie passes out. He’d rather not chance a repeat occurrence where John might be less forgiving. But since then, Rosie has taken to going to bed with her father and not falling asleep until Sherlock has crept in sometime later. It’s a compromise for them all.

Sherlock intends to duplicate said cycle tonight in order to not disrupt the space-time continuum of Baker Street, except that John is the one that goes off script, standing up and declaring he’s off to bed a full twelve minutes before he’s supposed to. He then treads further into the abyss by pulling Rosie’s headphones down and telling her it’s time to turn off. Sherlock’s heart flutters in dread, knowing what’s about to happen next. 

The screams are piercing, like shrapnel under skin, and John, to compensate or overpower or whatever the hell it is he’s doing, brings his own voice up in turn and the two create a gut-churning cacophony only heard in the deepest depths of hell. Sherlock screws up his face and covers his ears as the two go at it. The terrible twos can only morph into the torturous threes. 

It takes eight minutes and thirty-two seconds for things to calm down. Rosie sits pouting heavily and John rubs his face so hard Sherlock worries it might slide off in his hand. Mrs. Hudson comes up the stairs and pops her head in, looking to see if everything is alright. Sherlock waves her in and watches as she claps her hands to get everyone’s attention.

“Now that you two have had your row, I think it’s time we make ready for bed but with a new tradition,” she leans down to Rosie’s level and smiles mischievously, “I think we should all have a cuddle and a kiss before retiring.”

Three sets of eyes stare back at her; Rosie with glee, John with weary acceptance, and Sherlock with terror. Despite Mrs. Hudson’s cheers and Rosie’s celebratory lap around the sitting room furniture, there’s still an awkward silence that Sherlock can feel in his bones. John turns an uncomfortable glance his way and they both prepare for the new abnormal.

Mrs. Hudson goes first, scooping up Rosie and hugging her to her chest with a loud growl. The two chat away about how nice it is to be hugged and how only the most special people in our lives get this privilege. The people we love. When Mrs. Hudson finally lets her down, Rosie plants a kiss on her cheek and claps her hands.

“You next daddy! You next!”

John kneels down to his daughter and holds her close, his eyes closing as he strokes her little back and whispers in her ear. She giggles and he tickles her before letting her go. Rosie then reaches up and, just like Mrs. Hudson, plants a kiss on his cheek. 

Sherlock’s next and, like John, he gives the tiny tot a tickle before releasing her. He gets a quick kiss for his effort and another mini-celebration takes place. All seems to go as planned. Mrs. Hudson quietly makes her escape, John takes his teacup to the kitchen, and Sherlock puts his violin away - and then Rosie says, “Daddy, you din’ cuddle Sher.”

Both men freeze. The air is suddenly thick with trepidation. Really. Sherlock can sense the uncertainty in John from the next room and he quickly, before any further awkwardness can be manufactured tonight, drops down next to Rosie and runs a gentle hand through her hair, attempting to dispel her most recent notion.

“Watson,” he says, probably too firmly, “I don’t require a cuddle from your daddy.”

She crosses her arms, “Uh, uh.”

“And your daddy, likewise, doesn’t need a cuddle from me.”

“No!”

This obviously isn’t working and Sherlock gestures for John to join him. Unfortunately, his attempt at conversation swaying goes much the same way. After a moment, Sherlock stands and pulls his violin back out and begins an allegretto while John shuts his laptop down and puts away the headphones. Both men, apparently on the same wavelength, believe that walking away and ignoring the problem may make it go away. But given all their efforts, they again fail to move away from the subject and only seem to intensify matters. 

“No! No! NO!! Daddy do it! Cuddle Sher! Now!”

Sherlock watches her tiny foot stamp and wonders where she learned that. He blames John. This time, John stays surprisingly cool-headed as he ignores the outburst and searches for Rosie’s favorite blanket, something else that’s relatively new, and mutters a silent prayer when he finds it stuffed in the cushions of the couch. They both turn back just in time to feel like complete asses. She’s crying. But these aren’t loud, screaming, throwing a life-altering fit kind of tears, no, these are the soft, silent, you’ve-betrayed-me-in-the-worst-possible-way-and-I may-never-get-over-it kind. And they work.

“Daddy don’ love Sher.”

This pitiful statement is followed by a wet and sniffling Rosie running and collapsing into Sherlock’s arms. His heart hurts. It hurts really bad. He glares at John. 

“All right,” John kneels next to them and runs a hand through her hair, “All right, Rosie. I’ll cuddle Sherlock.”

There’s a loud sniff and the tiny face is wiping aggressively against Sherlock’s shirt. His eyes double in size at the slimy violation and John snickers, averting his face to hide his smile. Rosie turns her red-cheeked face toward him and sniffles again. “Daddy loves Sher?”

John nods, still looking down to his daughter, “Yes. Daddy loves Sherlock.”

And once again, Sherlock’s heart hurts, but in a good way this time that makes him breathe funny and flush and blink like an idiot and, for the life of him, he doesn’t know what to do. Does he feel the same way? Should he tell John? But what if John is lying? Would John lie to his own daughter just to make her feel better? And if so, would John lie about something like this? It seems rather important. And since John said it out loud, that means he’s lied to them both. If he lied. Sherlock hopes he didn’t. Should he ask? 

This erratic but silent stream of consciousness is interrupted by John pulling Rosie from Sherlock’s arms and giving her a big hug and apologizing for upsetting her. She accepts this wholeheartedly and Sherlock is impressed and humbled by how loving and open children can be compared to the rest of the world. He’ll have to divorce her from such habits. Once reparations have been managed, the young blonde turns expectant eyes on them.

“Kay. Now you.”

Sherlock stands just as Rosie puts her tiny hand over John’s chest and pushes him away. He stands and stares awkwardly at Sherlock. His hand comes up to scratch the back of his head and he smiles a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Sherlock raises his brows, “Ready when you are, Daddy.”

He can see John’s teeth grinding behind his thinned lips and almost regrets poking the bear. Almost, because John closes the distance. And then John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s sides. And their bodies are flush from chest to knee. And Sherlock can’t seem to remember how to breathe. 

“Sher! You too!”

The command jerks him into motion and he wills his own arms to wrap around his friend. It takes a moment, but his brain begins to accept his physical position and his body slowly relaxes. Of its own accord, it leans onto John and, in response (and to his complete surprise), John tightens his hold and moves to rest his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder. It’s paramount cocaine high and a visit from Mycroft rolled together. Sherlock can feel his transport respond approvingly and his mind slows to a near stop. He doesn’t move, lest other bits of anatomy become uncontrollable, but attempts a shallow breath. 

“Sherlock? You all right?”

It’s barely there. A whisper in his ear, but it’s so John Watson. So caring and honest that Sherlock has no doubt John loves him. Of course, John wouldn’t lie. John’s too good. And it makes Sherlock’s heart do horrible, hateful things which make it hurt in a good way again. He nods, too scared to speak and hides his face in John’s hair. In response, John’s hands lay flat over his back. And then they move. Up and down. Rubbing gently. 

Sherlock closes his eyes and he now knows how John felt while holding Rosie. This is what it’s like to be loved. Safe. Happy. He wants to savor this moment, this speck in time that he may never get again. He wants to lock it away in his mind palace to revisit every time he manages to upset John. For when he fears his friend might leave him. He wants it for lonely nights and for bad dreams and for silly domestics. He wants this forever.

Too soon, but for his own sanity, Sherlock pulls away. And it hurts like a physical blow. All of a sudden he’s cold and alone again. But he has to. If he doesn’t, he’ll never let go. So he fists his hands quickly, attempting to hide the emotion and, keeping his head down, steps away clearing his throat in a professional manner. 

“Thank you John, and Rosie. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.”

John frowns at the same time Rosie cheers and Sherlock feels completely unstable. Normally, he’d focus on John’s stance, his face, and read him like a book so he would know what to expect and how to act, but right now, Sherlock’s so shaken he doesn’t want to see if John’s mad or disgusted or just wants to get as far away as possible. Maybe all of the above. But the night isn’t over and, as expected, Rosie makes her next demand. 

“G’night kiss, Daddy. Then bed,” a cute little yawn, then, “I’m sleepy now.”

John shifts his weight and bites his lip, his brow still furrowed. Sherlock shakes his head and leans forward still leaving about a foot between them. “You don’t have to John.”

John’s eyes come up to meet Sherlock’s just as another tiny yawn sounds below them, but he continues to stare, searching for something unsaid but somehow important. John looks at him so long that Sherlock feels like the doctor wandered straight into his soul, taken a lengthy tour, and stopped off to get brunch. He feels laid bare. Naked. And like an idiot, he’s too caught up in feeling things to notice when John makes the decision to move, to grab his face between warm hands and press his lips just to the left of Sherlock’s mouth. 

It’s only a second. One thousand of the most visceral milliseconds of his pathetic life, but Sherlock relishes every one of them - especially the faint brush of thumbs over cheekbones as John pulls away.

“Right. One goodnight kiss, as requested.” John turns to Rosie who nods approvingly. “Now, ready for bed?”

There’s another nod and John’s quickly scooping up his daughter. He tosses the blanket over his shoulder and moves toward the door. He’s leaving the room. He doesn’t look back. Sherlock watches him go, mouth slightly open and heart near to bursting. 


	3. A Bit Not Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to get away. Mycroft is nosy. John is angry. Rosie is sad.

Immediately after what Sherlock likes to think of as “the kiss” he called Mycroft. The conversation went as well as expected given the fact that Sherlock refused to explain why he was acting strange but demanded his brother give him a case that would both take him out of town and last for several days. Thankfully, Mycroft shut his piehole and acquiesced with a lovely triple homicide in the farmlands of Lavernock. He left the same night.

The four-hour drive puts him in the heart of the country smack dab in the middle of the night and most inconveniently finds him standing outside the scene of the crime, in the dark, in the pouring rain, attempting to convince the local constable to let him investigate.

“But it’s two in the bloody mornin’ and pissin’ right down.”

“That’s very astute of you, Officer Hech.”

“An’ we weren’t ‘spectin’ ya ‘til the morrow.”

“Yes, but I’m here now. So if you’ll let me into the home, I can begin my investigation and be out of your hair all the sooner.”

“You plannin’ on workin’ the whole night then, Mr. Holmes?”

“Obviously.”

“But what if ya get tired?”

“I won’t.”

“But if ya do.”

Sherlock stares, uncertain if this is a test or just a very strange and ignorant man. “If I get tired, I will lie down and go to sleep.”

Officer Hech’s lips come up in distaste, “In tha’ house?”

“In that house.”

“Where them people was murdered?”

-

-

The next day, Sherlock answers the door to the home where three people were gutted, their blood used to refurbish the hundred-year-old hardwood floors, and their hearts put on display over the mantle. 

“Officer Hech! What a surprise. And you brought friends.”

Hech smiles at the false pleasantries. The other man doesn’t. “Mr. Holmes, I’m Detective Inspector Matheson. I’ve been sent down to help you solve the case -”

“Matheson? It’s about time. I imagine you got lost along the way because the murder happened yesterday morning and you can’t possibly have forgotten about the only triple homicide to ever happen in this remote little town? I mean, it must be the most exciting thing since your annual pie-walk or the local goat festival, given all the juicy berries and fresh meat in here.”

“Sir, I drove from Cardiff.”

“And I from London. Poor excuse. And you call yourself a detective. Well, if you can’t be bothered to do your job I suppose you can just come back later. It’s not like they’re going anywhere.”

Sherlock goes to close the door in his face but a boot stops the progress, “Oi, what the hell are you doing? You don’t live here!” 

“And?” Sherlock waves him off, “Doesn’t matter. I’ve solved it anyway. It was the brother.”

“But, all three of them brothers is dead, Mr. Holmes,” Hech says.

“No, two brothers and one lawyer are dead. Their bodies were so mutilated that you assumed that all three brothers had been killed while rendezvousing on the old family farm, when instead, two brothers and a lawyer arrived here to sign over legal rights to the home, which, according to these documents,” he thrusts a handful of papers into Matheson’s chest, “is worth quite a bit.”

“So’s, the other brother got all mad-like an’ did em in, dinni’ he?” 

Sherlock leans in and smiles, seeing and understanding Hech’s excitement, “Exactly.”

“And how exactly do you know this?” Matheson asks, “Where’s the proof?”

“Ah,” Sherlock reaches back and slips on his coat, “the majority of the tire tracks here are from tractors, farmers, except for two distinct sets. Ours, and the ones from the killer. Get a cast and compare it to our suspect’s vehicle. And do try not to get them mixed up. There is also the tread through the mud where the murderer entered the house and exited through the back. Not very deep, also left a few footprints on the carpet, so a small and very slim man with tiny feet. Size five.” He wraps his scarf around his neck and steps out of the house, “Now, the blood splatter patterns indicate that the killer was just covered in blood when he went all stabby stabby, so he will likely still have remnants of blood on his person that didn’t wash away completely. A blacklight will uncover this easily enough once you find him. I really could go on, but I’m a bit bored now,” he digs in his pocket and pulls on his gloves, wiggling his fingers over his shoulder as he leaves, “Toodles.” 

-

-

Despite dropping him off at Barts, as he requested, Mycroft’s black car stops in front of Baker Street. Sherlock signs heavily, unable to appropriately vent his frustration at his brother’s meddling in his personal life, the smarmy git obviously realizing the reason for Sherlock’s quick getaway. 

Taking a moment, he stares up at the flat through the tinted window. John’s in there. John, who he shared a kiss with, is in that flat. It’s far too soon. He needs more time. Pulling out his phone, he dials Lestrade but gets his voicemail. With a frustrated growl, he switches to text.

Anything on? - SH

I’m in a meeting. - Lestrade

Not important. Anything on? - SH

No. - Lestrade

Ask your brother ;) - Lestrade

Sherlock hisses through his teeth like a wounded cat and roughly shoves his phone in his pocket. Ask his brother. Not likely. Why on earth would Lestrade suggest that? Unless - 

The black privacy divider descends revealing the driver. “Is there a problem, Sir? I was told to drop you off at 221B -”

“No!” he catches himself, “No, thank you.”

He gets out and watches with a scowl as the car rolls away. It’s fine. He’ll just head upstairs and pretend he’s on a case. John won’t know any better. He’s probably put the whole “kiss” incident behind him. Actually, John’s probably not bothered by it at all. He’s an adult, after all . . . and if Sherlock follows this train of thought, that makes _him_ the ignorant teenager, struggling to control his ridiculously errant thoughts and feelings. 

“Which is preposterous!” he cries aloud, startling a passing couple who go out of their way to cross to the other side of the street. 

Sherlock frowns. This is preposterous. He’s Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Master of organizing and channelling all sentiment into the most base form of intellect and logic. He can handle this. Yes, it’s fine. It’s all fine. 

-

-

Two days later, Sherlock is frowning heavily into his microscope. Lestrade still hasn’t provided him with a case, Mycroft is still an annoying git, and to compensate for both his boredom and to maintain a comfortable distance between him and John, Sherlock has busied himself making various colors of acid. It fits his mood. Biting. He also needs to replace Mrs. Hudson’s food coloring and Rosie’s crayons. 

He blinks and opens his mouth to ask John to pick up food coloring and crayons with the milk but stops himself. No. Mustn’t do that. He knows he needs to talk to John at some point, but not right now. It’s too soon. Besides, if he ignores “the kiss” long enough, it will be like it never happened. Yes. 

A cold cuppa sits between two beakers, each containing a thick green bubbling mixture. The cuppa John made an hour ago. Sherlock stares at it longingly, wishing he’d drank it when it was fresh. He could get up, pop it in the microwave, but it’s too late now. John has taken the day off, for no good reason, which means that Sherlock is now trapped at the kitchen table, pretending to gather new notes on an experiment he perfected yesterday. It’s hateful.

A squeal and the familiar joined laughter of the other two residents of 221B lets him know Rosie’s awake. Sherlock checks his watch. Nine thirty-two in the morning. John let her sleep in. Sherlock startles and buries his face back in his microscope as said person walks into the kitchen. There’s a rustling in the cabinets and a pan being placed on the hob. 

“I’m going to make Rosie some eggs,” John says. Sherlock doesn’t respond. “Since I know you didn’t eat this morning, I’ll make you some too.” 

“Work!” Sherlock blurts out and grimaces. Idiot! He's not supposed to speak.

John pauses, “Pardon?”

“You should be at work. Why aren’t you at work?”

“It’s Saturday.”

The fridge opens. Sherlock frantically parses through a mental block. “And Watson should be at nursery.”

Another longer pause, then, “It’s Saturday.”

In an attempt to seem nonchalant, Sherlock pulls his eyes from the microscope and grabs a pen, scribbling a ton of scientific nonsense onto his notepad. He makes the ridiculous mistake of not keeping an eye on his flatmate because the man he’s tried desperately to keep at a distance is now right behind him, reaching around to carefully lift the mug of cold tea from between the beakers. Sherlock freezes, his mind coming to a complete stop.

“I’ll make you another cuppa.” 

The wisp of John’s breath feathers over his ear making him shiver. Sherlock holds his own breath, absolutely terrified of what may come out if he releases it. Maybe words. Maybe a sound, excited or terrified or otherwise. He then feels the heat of a warm hand pressing on his lower back and has to fight not to lean into it. John moves away, presumably back to the sink where he’ll fill the kettle, and then to the hob where he’ll boil the water and make the eggs, and then back to Sherlock where he will place the food and drink before him with expectations. 

He manages to look up. John’s back is turned so Sherlock releases his breath slowly, swallowing thickly. He can still feel the heat from that hand. Gentle. Kind. John. _What the hell has gotten into me?_ Just then, another excited squeal sounds to his right and he turns just in time to see Rosie gripping one of the neon pink specimens of acid between her little hands, pulling it from the table. Instinctively, Sherlock reacts, lunging for the liquid before it can spill on the child.

“Noooo!” he manages to recover the glass and safely place it back on the table, then, “Christ, Watson! Are you purposely trying to off yourself? What have I told you? _Don’t! Touch! My! Things!_ ” 

And, of course, this is a bit Not Good. The tiny wisp of a girl stands frozen on the tile floor, her big eyes shining and filling with tears until they overflow and roll fast down her swollen red cheeks. A slight whine escapes followed by a harsh hiccuped suction of air and then a sharp, ear-piercing cry bellows out and before Sherlock can move, Rosie is running from the room. 

Sherlock stands frozen while his emotions, anger and fear and guilt, all consume him completely. His heart seems to beat from his chest and, blinking rapidly, he runs a rough hand over his face and through his hair. Christ. Holy christ. He turns around. John is staring at him. 

“You yelled at her.”

It takes him a second, but he responds. “I did,” he says, not meeting John’s eyes.

“But you never yell. I yell, but you don’t. You’re Sher Sher.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of who I am John,” he snaps. 

This too is a bit Not Good because John automatically goes on the defensive, his body and jaw becoming rigid. “She’s just a child, Sherlock.”

“Something else I’m well aware of. Are you going to stand there and spout obvious facts at me all day because I’m sure your time can be better spent elsewhere.”

John silently stews for a moment, then, “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock turns back to his chemistry set and stares down at it completely unsure what to do. 

“No,” John shakes his head and takes a step forward, “Something is wrong. What’s wrong with you Sherlock?”

Sherlock turns to him, eyes blazing, “Besides the fact that Watson nearly melted herself on the kitchen floor - Nothing! Nothing is wrong with me, John!” 

John seems taken aback by Sherlock’s outburst. As he said, Sherlock doesn’t yell. Especially since Rosie became a part of their lives. But like the soldier he is, John regroups and holds his own, determined to keep having this inane conversation. 

“You can’t blame her. She’s just a child.”

“That’s an excuse, not a reason for her to not know any better. Touching my things. Why haven’t you taught her to mind her own, John?”

“What? Really?” John sputters.

“- there must be a sufficient punishment to educate her on the handling of personal effects.”

“You aren’t punishing Rosie.”

“- something that shows positive reinforcement while educating and reprimanding -”

“You will not punish my child!!” Sherlock’s eyes flick up at this. John is breathing hard and his face is flushed. He takes a moment to gather himself before he continues, “There are a few things you should know, Sherlock. First, Rosie is _my_ daughter, not yours. If anyone is going to punish her, it will be me. Second, you insist I educate her on ‘minding her own’ when you yourself cannot seem to stay out of my personal life or stop taking and using my things without permission.”

“And three?” Sherlock says quietly.

“She’s a child. I say this again because I’m trying to express to you that you aren’t. No matter how many times something is drilled into her head, Rosie is two years old and not likely to remember. So as the adult, Sherlock, and a bloody genius, you should anticipate this and having a chemistry set with god-knows-what growing and brewing in the kitchen, well . . . that’s not a safe and conducive environment for a child.” 

John hesitates and the pressure of that hesitation squeezes Sherlock. John’s points are completely accurate, no matter how much they sting, and as an adult, Sherlock should admit John’s right but when he does go to speak, he stops dead. John’s face is crestfallen, his eyes glancing from the sitting room to the kitchen and over the various beakers and liquids, and shakes his head. 

“What am I doing? You won’t change -- You shouldn’t have to. This is your place. I . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s us that shouldn’t be here.”

Sherlock’s seen John mad enough to throw things, face beet-red, eyes blazing. He’s even felt the sharp rap of knuckles on his face. But now, John only looks sad and unsure and Sherlock doesn’t like it. The chance to speak, to plead his case, to apologize is suddenly gone because John walks from the room. Sherlock stands there, stomach twisting, heart hurting, unable to move as he listens to the sounds of John packing a bag and leading a consoled Rosie down the stairs and out the front door. 


	4. Good Morning, John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's exhausted. Rosie's refreshed. John's trapped.

John wakes to the weight of a small person crawling over his legs, thumping to the floor, and rushing from the room. He blinks against the light and goes to roll over and give chase but is stopped by another weight, the weight of an arm draped over his stomach. Tilting his head to the left, he’s shocked to find his flatmate snuggled up into his armpit, dark curls splayed wildly on his face and over John’s shoulder. 

“What the-- Sherlock?” he says, half asleep and wondering if he’s dreaming. His friend doesn’t move. “Sherlock,” he says again, this time more adamantly, but his friend still doesn’t stir. 

John is worried. With a little effort, he’s able to turn to face the detective and, very cautiously, reach down to push Sherlock’s hair back. His fingers trail slowly along the side of his face and over his cheek before stopping at his nose. 

“Well, you’re breathing. That’s always good.” 

Ever the doctor, he takes a moment to feel for fever and then, a little guiltily, push the sleeves of his friend’s dressing gown up to check for needle punctures. Not that he believes Sherlock is using again, not with Rosie in the house, but John would be remiss to not at least check. Even Sherlock would agree it's only logical. John lets out a breath. He’s clean. 

After John left for a night away following their row, he came back to Baker Street with every intention of looking for a place of his own but every time he brought it up, Sherlock shut him down. If he wasn't completely ignored, John was simply told to "stay put and shut up". The ridiculous man even went as far as to hide John's laptop so he couldn't use the internet. It was worse than awkward. The tension was thick enough to cut and John could see Sherlock struggling, but he didn't interfere. What could he say? And even if he did say something, Sherlock would just call him an idiot. Granted, he wasn't even sure what was going on anymore and attempting to get through to Sherlock was a losing battle. John should know. 

But to his surprise, the next morning John noticed a significant change. Gone was Sherlock's chemistry set from the kitchen counter; and the growing piles of notes in the sitting room, and any sharp objects that happened to be lying about. The floors were vacuumed and even the fridge was clear of body parts. It was like a different flat. A clean one. A normal one. But, unfortunately, this only further endangered Sherlock's difficult mood. So again, incredibly gently and over a cup of tea, John attempted to bring up his moving out only for Sherlock to grab his coat and leave.

Despite his surly attitude, John always thought his friend was attractive in an androgynous sort of way, having a long slender form with those cheekbones and that deep baritone voice. Yes, Sherlock Holmes is captivating, always attracting the passersby with his posh clothes, striking looks, and devil-may-care attitude. And giving the tall man a goodnight kiss a few days ago was no hardship. Not to John anyway. Sherlock . . . well, he doesn't much know about his friend and doesn't dare speculate, but it’s neither here nor there because Sherlock Holmes is, and forever will be, married to his work. 

It's fine. John dated. Until Sherlock broke them up (maybe on purpose, he's not quite sure) and John found someone else. Date. Break up. Date. Break up. Somehow, this became a vicious but strangely normal cycle that carried on for years. 

Until John lost Mary. 

He’s not sure if Sherlock noticed or just chose not to say anything, but after that things changed. They became closer. Sometimes unconsciously so. John mourned, but mostly gave all his time to Rosie; changing diapers, feeding, being both father and mother as best he could. Sherlock, in turn, gave all his time to John. If he wasn't distracting John with a case, he would drop everything to bother John at his suburban home, ganging up with Rosie to argue the inaccuracies of modern medical breakthroughs or destroying the kitchen and Rosie's clothes creating alternate organic baby foods. But most of the time, Sherlock would drag them to the flat where he would make tea and play the violin. 

It was good, what he did. Helpful, and not long after, his friend helped carry his and Rosie's belongings into Baker Street. 

Now, life continues and John halves his between work and being a father. He doesn’t have time for dating. He doesn’t have time for sex. So he wanks, because it’s all he has left. And sometimes, not that he would ever tell, he thinks of his best friend. It’s wrong in so many ways - Sherlock wouldn’t be pleased, they’d have another row, and John would be abruptly shut down a second time - but it’s not often and, so long as he keeps it secret, it’s his burden to bear.

Ironically it's here, now - in John's bed - that things have come to a head and John is a firm believer that after spending three days avoiding each other, it's a bit odd to suddenly wake up snuggled by the one person who adamantly voices his dislike for anything resembling affection or feelings. Actually . . . it's downright worrying, but by the looks of things Sherlock's okay and, despite any oddities, that’s all that matters. 

John runs his fingers gently over those ridiculously high cheekbones one more time before threading them through his friend’s hair and tugging, “Sherlock. Sherlock, get up you lazy git. You’re in my bed.” For his effort, he gets a cute little snore before that curly head once again buries against his side. 

A knock at his bedroom door startles him and he turns to find Mrs. Hudson standing there. He attempts to pull the covers up but her eyes have already fallen to the sleeping detective draped over him and she smiles knowingly. “Sorry to bother you two, but I’m going to get Rosie dressed and take her with me to see Bridget. You know how she loves to play with little Pepper. We’ll pop by the bakery on the way, so no need to worry about breakfast. You two just enjoy your morning.”

And she's gone. John falls back with a groan which makes Sherlock tighten his hold, a bit possessively if you ask John, and mumble drowsily under his breath. Admittedly, it could be worse. John can think of at least a dozen different things Sherlock could get him into, most of them bringing him that much closer to meeting his maker, but at least he’s not there. He’s instead in his room. In his bed. With his best friend. John sighs the sigh of a man who’s accepted his fate of having to live with the world’s most unpredictable flatmate and settles back under the covers. Might as well get a few more hours sleep. 


	5. Under the Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's pretty. John plays doctor. Rosie drools.

Sherlock wakes with a snuffle. He’s warm. Comfortable. It smells nice. He’s covered in blankets and . . . a person? He blinks several times, rapidly, then focuses. No. No, no, NO!! He’s failed to retire to his own bed after Rosie fell asleep and now he’s here. In John’s bed. With John! And to make matters worse, all his traitorous appendages are wrapped around his friend like an octopus, connecting their bodies as if to ration the glorious heat within their shared cocoon. 

_Take a deep breath. All right. It’s fine. All you have to do is untangle yourself from John and slide out of the bed and from the room. No worries. This is doable._

Except Sherlock doesn’t move and instead turns his face up almost infinitesimally into John’s neck and breaths in. Oh, gods. It’s so much better from the source. Sherlock smiles. His lips graze John’s shoulder and he quickly stills, understanding but terrified at the significance of this secret act. 

Heart pounding out of his chest, Sherlock releases the doctor and, one at a time slides slowly from around the smaller man; _remove arms engulfing best friend and leg thrown possessively over his lower half._ During the transition, John’s hands grope at the covers and he frowns. Sherlock freezes, a precariously hovering statue, until John thankfully settles, remaining unconscious. 

Once Sherlock clears the bed, he stands shaken and overwhelmed. His emotions, he frowns in severe distaste, are high making his body overreact. Because this isn’t a big deal. No. It’s fine. It’s all fine. 

Except he slept with John. He smelled John. His lips grazed John’s naked skin. And Sherlock liked it! He violated his friend’s personal space. John will be horrified when he finds out. Christ! This is intolerable. Inexcusable. 

Sherlock leaves the room. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. 

-

-

When he wakes, it’s to a tiny Watson sitting on his chest smiling down at him. He’s on the floor. Cold and achy. He groans and raises his large hands to hold the child steady as he removes her now giggling form and rolls on his side. 

“Sher Sher. I paint!”

Sherlock raises his brows and absently grunts his approval. It takes a moment but he gets up to his knees. He smiles crookedly and ruffles the blonde’s hair which makes her squeal and drag him up by the hand. Together, they make their way down the stairs and into the sitting room where John sits typing on his laptop. He looks up briefly.

“Good morning.”

“Is it?” Sherlock says, trying to get a rise from his friend. It doesn’t work.

“Mmm,” John says, still intent on his henpecking, and Sherlock, despite his little panic attack this morning, is intent on having his friend’s full attention. So he sits down in his chair with a huff and pouts. 

“John.”

“Yes?”

“Did you see me on the floor?”

“Outside my bedroom door? Yes.”

Sherlock pauses, both unprepared for John’s brief but honest answer and startled at the admission of his location without any speculation for it. Does John know? Is he mad? Sherlock must approach this delicately, as someone trying not to startle a wild animal.

“And you just _left me there?!_ ” he snaps.

John continues to type. “I did,” a pause, more typing and a smirk, then, “you seemed fine. It’s not unusual to find you passed out in random places.”

“So you figured not to waste your energy on relocation?”

“Nope.” John pops the “p” and Sherlock flinches. So he isn’t worth the effort. He deserves that, he guesses. After yelling at Watson and upsetting John and then taking advantage of his personal space while he slept. Yes, Sherlock deserves the floor. 

“Besides, I left Rosie to look after you.”

An excited squeal accompanies the declaration as the tiny blonde pads through the room and shoves a hand mirror at him. Sherlock looks at Rosie in confusion then catches the wicked smirk from her father. 

“Look, Sher Sher. Look! So pretty!”

John finally stops typing and nods, his eyes studying Sherlock’s face intently, “Yes, he does look rather fetching, doesn’t he? You’ve done well Rosie.”

Sherlock glares and raises the mirror. A pink pony grazes on brown grass over his forehead while a house rests on his left cheek and the sun shines brightly on his right. There’s also a vibrant red over his lips that makes him blink rapidly and tilt his head. 

“Although this shade of red is most definitely not my color, I do say that your drawing skills have advanced quite nicely Watson. Good job.” Rosie smiles and giggles. Sherlock frowns, all serious. “Let’s not do this again. Ever. Understood?”

The little blonde head bobs in sage agreement, “No.”

John’s laughter is loud and impressive and from the gut. And Sherlock is addicted to it. He wants more of it and soon, but a rather hacking cough pulls Sherlock from his lingering awe of his flatmate and to little Watson who covers her mouth with stubby hands. When she’s finally done, her cheeks are bright red and her eyes watery. John immediately calls her to him.

“Oh, sweetheart. Are you not feeling well?”

“Noooo.” A sad face.

“Do you want daddy to look?”

“Yeahhh.”

John goes into doctor mode and comes to the conclusion that Rosie has a cold and that he’s going to take her to the paediatrician first thing in the morning. The rest of the day, Sherlock keeps a close eye on little Watson.

-

-

Rosie is so under the weather that she sleeps most of the day and retires for the night without fuss when John does. Sherlock is left in the sitting room alone. It feels strange, as he normally lies watching the Watson’s sleep just across from him. But he won’t tonight. And it’s such a shock that Sherlock is startled at how his time spent in John’s bed has become the norm. For him anyway. John’s mostly none the wiser. But he admits, to himself, that he misses it. 

The next morning isn’t much better as John looks more tired than usual. Sherlock can see it. The dark circles under his eyes, the slow sluggish movements, the constant frown. He’s getting sick too, except his symptoms are much worse than Rosie’s and it greatly worries Sherlock. 

Mrs. Hudson brings lunch up to them as a surprise and throws a fit at the state of them. She immediately makes them a warm cuppa and says she’s off to make some warm brothy soup and to bring back some over the counters. Sherlock is silently thankful, as her consistent mothering isn’t always so horrible. 

John doesn’t eat. Says he can’t. His throat hurts too much. He then coughs so hard that he nearly chokes and Rosie starts to cry. John tries to tell her it’s okay but it only throws him into another painful coughing fit. By the time he’s done, he’s shaking and sweaty. Sherlock grips his arm and tugs.

“Come on John. Let’s get you to bed.”

John doesn’t argue but nods as Sherlock picks up his daughter and takes the two to their bedroom. Sherlock immediately takes Rosie to her toddler bed and busies himself tucking her in, chatting while John slowly undresses and climbs under the duvet. When Sherlock finally does appear next to him, he smiles.

“What do you need, John?”

“A glass of water and that cough medicine would be nice.” Sherlock fetches said items along with a wet flannel that he hands to his friend. John hums, “Ta very much, Doctor Holmes.”

Sherlock smiles and blushes then says quickly, “If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs.”

He doesn’t get an answer. John’s already asleep. 

-

-

It’s hours later that Sherlock hears the muffled cries. He’s not been far from John’s room much anyway, but this one catches him off guard as he’s just shooed away Lestrade with threats of bodily harm if he didn’t cease and desist about his case. Today just wouldn’t do. 

The moment the inspector leaves, Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time and reaches John’s room just as Rosie gets to the door, rubbing her tired eyes. He shushes her and lifts her into his arms, wrapping her favorite blanket around her. Leaning forward, he peeks through the doorway. John’s still asleep. 

He quickly heads downstairs with his bundle and, grabbing John’s medical bag, settles in his chair with Rosie snuggled close to his chest. She mewls a bit and coughs but even Sherlock can tell that she’s not as bad off as her father. Last he checked, John’s fever had gone up and Mrs. Hudson had kindly collected his antibiotics. But Sherlock still rifles through the bag and pulls out the appropriate medication for Rosie, keeping the child close as he prepares the exact measurement to give her in seven minutes time. 

There’s a bit of grousing and coughing on his best purple dress shirt, but Sherlock gets the medicine in his charge and wraps her up tight to rest, “There now. That’s better, isn’t it Watson?” No answer. 

He peeks down at her little face smushed against his chest. There’s a big yawn from her tiny body. Sherlock immediately replicates it then frowns. “That’s contagious Watson. Well, biologically it isn’t, but behaviorally speaking, there is the theory of social mirroring where organisms imitate the actions of others to create a sort of yawn contagion, but . . .” 

A tiny snore interrupts his rambling. Sherlock smiles and scoots back in his chair, prepared to settle in and allow the small child to nap for as long as she likes. 

-

-

The sound of someone sitting across from him wakes him and he immediately feels for Rosie, who still rests peacefully on his chest. Sherlock blinks up at a haggard-looking John and frowns.

“John. Are you all right?” he looks at the clock then back to his friend, “Did you need something? You didn’t sleep long.”

John merely shakes his head and bundles his duvet closer to himself, “Mmm, no. Just couldn’t sleep. It’s too quiet.”

Sherlock thinks this over. According to his words, John’s presumably always had a very loud past, especially when trying to sleep, and isn’t accustomed to silent nights. As a young man, likely his parents fighting over his sister’s sexuality or his father’s drinking. Then later, in Afghanistan, where a full and safe night’s sleep is never certain amid gunfire and screams. And once he arrived back in London, the depression and the nightmares; the sudden death of his wife only added kindling to the fire. Sherlock isn’t quite sure if he helps with the late-night crime-solving adventures and violin playing and he suddenly feels guilty. Even if he also keeps John up, the man’s too kind to say.

“Can’t hear you breathing,” John says, making Sherlock look up puzzled.

“Sorry?”

“You and Rosie. I can’t sleep unless I can hear you breathing.” He smiles sheepishly, “Guess it’s become a thing. Forget it.”

He shakes his head at the same time Sherlock does. “No. I understand John.” 

The two men make eye contact. John stares hard at him, almost like he’s willing him to know something Sherlock wishes he already knew but doesn’t and it’s painful. And now, because of this, whatever _this_ is, Sherlock doesn't feel so bad anymore. Because John knows _._ He knows Sherlock sleeps in his bed. Quite frequently. And not only is he aware, but he allows it. And he's fine. He's not mad. He's not trying to leave. Everything's fine. 

Sherlock swallows thickly and reiterates, “I do.”

John coughs hard and uses the duvet to cover his mouth so he doesn’t wake Rosie. It bothers Sherlock that his friend is so bad off. What if it gets worse? What if John has to go to hospital? But Sherlock shakes himself from such thoughts. He won’t lose John. John’s a doctor. He knows sickness. When John finally stops, he has to take a moment to catch his breath but Sherlock can tell he wants to say something and waits patiently. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“No.”

“Mmh, yes,” he says determinedly, despite aggressively clearing his throat and wiping his eyes before resting his head on the back of his chair. “I yelled at you.”

“You yell at me quite a lot.”

“I said Rosie wasn’t yours.”

“She isn’t.”

“But in all the ways that matter, she is.”

Sherlock shuts his mouth with a snap. John’s words make him ache, he aches so hard that he hides his face in Rosie’s thick blonde hair. And damn John for making it worse.

“I mean . . . if you could see what I see Sherlock -” 

Christ it hurts, but it’s a good hurt and he wants it. Sherlock wants it more than life. Through his peripheral, he spies John’s bottom lip tremble up into a smile and Sherlock wonders if his eyes are watery because he’s sick or if he’s about to cry. It doesn’t matter because he has to stop before Sherlock cries. This all has to stop, right now. 

Admittedly, he’s shocked. And happy. But really shocked. Sherlock never imagined himself the parenting type. He dislikes people in general and figures that sentiment extends to all ages and sizes, but after spending so much time with Watson, he finds he rather enjoys the often ridiculous and disparate battles of logic with the two-year-old and finds himself relating more than he ever expected. 

“Still. I had no right to ask you to change for us.”

“It wasn’t entirely for you,” Sherlock says then stops, worried he’s insulted his friend but John, the wonderfully imperfect being he is, merely waits for him to explain. “You are right, John. I am an adult,” a pause, “and a genius, and as such, I should have prepared long ago for Rosie’s arrival.”

“Maybe, but this is your home.”

“It’s your home too. I want you here, John. _Always_. If I didn’t, nothing would be different.” 

There’s another long, strained, but exciting pause where Sherlock feels ready to burst as John just stares at him, into him, and Sherlock doesn’t know if he’s done something good or a bit not good. Thankfully, the silence is broken by his friend, who for once doesn’t look upset with him.

“Right. Good. I’m glad you feel that way because . . . I do too. And Rosie, of course.”

Sherlock smiles, “Of course.”

John fights another cough that ends with an exhausted sigh and droopy eyes. Sherlock absently rubs Watson’s back as he silently watches John fight his weary infected body to stay awake then grunt in frustration when the medicine takes over and he realises he must give in. It’s a worthy battle but Sherlock knows John will sleep better knowing he and Rosie are in the room. He glances down at the tiny blonde creating a rather large wet spot on his purple shirt and smiles. For now, he has to trust everything will be okay. And it will be. He will ensure it. 


	6. Little Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Tammy spends time with the Holmes-Watson family. Rosie's sad. Sherlock's defensive. Everything is John's fault. Cookies!! Mycroft's a boss.

Miss Tamera James opens the door of her office and slumps into the black padded chair behind her desk. It’s been a long day and after three hours of sleep, a misshapen fire drill, and a diet soda for lunch, she still has to speak to the parents of one of her problem students. Her tired eyes fall to the drawer on her left, her hand resting lightly on the handle. It tightens slightly in anticipation but retreats. It’s not worth it. She’s stronger than that.

Not twenty minutes later there’s a knock at her door and two men are escorted in by the secretary who politely closes it behind them. The first is tall, dark-haired, and silent in a snooty “I really have better things to do than be here right now” kind of way. The second is shorter and more approachable, but his smile is strained. They take a seat.

“Hello, Mr. Watson-Holmes, is it?”

The smaller one shakes his head in the negative, “Oh, sorry, no the names aren’t together. We aren’t together.” He points to his chest, “Watson,” then to his partner, “Holmes.”

“Right,” she nods at Mr. Holmes who completely ignores the conversation while Mr. Watson mounts a suitable defense at her suggestion. She really doesn’t care one way or another. “Well, I’m Miss Tammy of Tiny Tots Nursery and I’ve called you here today to talk about little Rosie.”

Mr. Watson shifts in his seat. He’s uncomfortable. “Do, ah . . . do you normally call parents in for a routine check-up or is this a special occasion?”

“It’s a bit of a special occasion but not in a good way, Mr. Watson.”

As a rule, Tamera always pays close attention to the face and body reactions of her customers so she can both read them and to gauge how to proceed. And these two don’t disappoint as Mr. Watson’s congenial smile immediately turns into a worried frown and Mr. Holmes sits up, his disgruntled attention now fully trained on her. 

Sherlock raises a hand as he speaks, “What’s happened? Are her academic standards falling? I was assured when we enrolled her that you have a competent team who’s dedicated to the care and education of FS1 children.” 

Tamera smiles ruefully, “Um, while we are dedicated to the children’s care and progress, Mr. Holmes, FS1 children are not graded on academic standards here. That won’t happen until they’re in Primary School.”

His glare doesn’t lessen, “Good. So what’s the problem? Is she being bullied?”

This makes Mr. Watson’s eyes dart from Tamera to his partner and back in a quick, scared way. She can tell the taller man is the protector in the relationship; angry and curt and probably used to getting his way. The smaller man just looks lost. She sort of feels sorry for him. Best get to the point then. 

She sits up and opens the red folder in front of her, “Over the past few weeks, there have been incidents.”

“Incidents?” Mr. Watson says.

“Yes,” Tamera frowns and taps her finger over the paper, “We’ve had several instances where Rosie’s been both disruptive and disrespectful to her peers and teachers.”

“What? But . . .”

“The 6th of March, a student dropped their sandwich Rosie called her an ‘Idiot’ and the same day, a teacher got on at one of the students, Rosie chimed in with, ‘Christ!’

The blonde man has the decency to flush. He must be the guilty party then. How unusual. Mr. Holmes continues to stare daggers at her. She continues. 

“The 8th of March, Rosie asked one of her classmates, a young boy named Aidan, ‘Why are your balls in the fridge?’” Tamera looks up from the paper, “There isn’t a refrigerator in the classroom.”

Mr. Holmes raises his hand and waits. Baffled, Tamera points at him, “Yes, Mr. Holmes?”

“It was eyeballs and they weren’t there long.”

“Two days, Sherlock. They were in there for _two days_! Right next to the spread.” Mr. Watson says. Tamera can tell he’s struggling to keep his voice calm and she watches both men intently, not at all expecting to be witness to the strange domestic unfolding in her office. “I thought you weren’t going to do experiments in the kitchen anymore,” he snaps, the heat finally coming to his face to flush it a bright red. 

“And I told you it was a one-off John. It hasn’t happened since, has it?”

But he doesn’t answer his partner who continues to stare him down. Then, with that bit of anger still simmering beneath the surface, Mr. Watson blinks back up at Tamera, “Is that all then?”

“No. Unfortunately not,” she looks back down at the paper, “Just yesterday, she told Mrs. Hamm that ‘everyone dies’ and later that same day, just before pickup, she yelled at Aidan, calling him an ‘idiot’ and saying ‘I can’t take you anywhere!’ No one’s quite sure what caused that outburst.”

There is a beat of silence where Tamera expects one to admit guilt or lash out against the accusations, but neither instance presents itself and she decides to press.

“Children are mimics. They hear and remember and repeat everything their parents say and do. Now, I’m not sure what you get up to at home, but Rosie has picked up your words and actions and she’s bringing them here to disrupt the other children.”

Mr. Holmes raises his hand again. His look is sour this time. Tamera points at him.

“You’re wrong.”

“Sherlock,” his partner chastises under his breath. Mr. Holmes sucks a sharp breath through his nose and starts again.

“First, I would like to argue that Rosie is merely expressing herself. She is obviously not like other children. She is intelligent and strong, like her parents.” 

Mr. Watson turns to look at him and Tamera sees his face clearly reflects surprise and love. Her brow quirks up at this development but she quickly shifts her focus back on Mr. Holmes who is still talking.

“-- is a basic misunderstanding on your part. Rosie was merely correcting a problem child in her classroom, something your teachers failed to do sufficiently. And third, our home life is none of your concern. It’s absurd to believe Rosie is mistreated in any way considering we have half of Scotland Yard in our sitting room at least once a week.” 

Tamera blinks, stunned at the argument, admissions, and wondering what kind of family would keep eyeballs in the refrigerator. Mr. Watson hides his face in his hands and a groaned “Oh Christ,” escapes him. She catches it with a knowing look and, realizing what he’s done, the guilty man leans his head back to stare at the ceiling imploringly as if it has the power to make this all go away. Tamera knows the feeling.

“I see. I’m afraid we disagree on the matter Mr. Holmes, but as it stands, it’s not Rosie’s place to correct her peers even if she is in the right.”

“Are you going to kick her out?” Mr. Watson asks, rubbing his hands over his knees in a near panic. This alerts his partner who turns to watch him closely and, because the two interact as if no one’s watching, Tamera watches Mr. Holmes watch Mr. Watson. It’s fascinating. 

Again, Tamera has to force herself to focus as another well of pity for the smaller man rises within her, “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, good. Because she really likes it here. We tried two other nurseries but she didn’t take well to them.”

“And we enjoy having her here, but things must change or we will be having this conversation again and I, unfortunately, cannot guarantee the outcome.”

Mr. Watson nods, “Of course. I’ll have a word with her.”

Tamera smiles and stands, “Thank you both for coming in. Rosie’s classroom is to the right. You can take her home since the day’s nearly done.”

The two men leave, Mr. Holmes giving her a strange look as he closes the door behind himself. Not that she’s a paranoid person but she doesn’t like the look. It’s not an ‘I’ll be seeing you later’ look but something quite similar and worrying. Tamera shakes her head to clear it somewhat. Yes, they seem an odd pair but that’s probably the gist of it. Besides, Mr. Watson seems a good sort, if not a bit on edge. This must be his only child. 

Tamara lets out a deep breath and sits back in her chair, eyes once again going toward the drawer on the left. It’s been a long day and she still has two meetings to attend if Tiny Tots Nursery is going to get permission to build on a second site. There’s a lot of work to do. She ignores the drawer. She’s fine. 

-

-

Picking up Rosie. Sherlock holding her up to hail a cab. The two chatting on the way home. The chase up the stairs that has his daughter giggling hysterically. John can’t seem to take his eyes off of his friend. 

After the horrible meeting at the nursery, he feels wrung out and scared. If things don’t change, Rosie will be kicked out of school. How is he supposed to control what he says when he’s stroppy, his flatmate’s bizarre antics, and Rosie’s tendency to repeat them? It’s an impossible task. And he’s only one bloody man! He should be pulling out his hair. He should be yelling. But at the moment, he can’t stop staring at Sherlock Holmes who is currently brushing Rosie’s hair into two pert pigtails while she eats homemade sweet potato chips. 

“. . . particularly high in fibre as well as a quarter of the daily percentage of vitamins and minerals a small human like you needs.”

“Mmm, minralls.”

“These particular ones, which I made myself, have exceptionally high amounts of iron and calcium. The typical amounts of B and C vitamins are stable in such a vegetable but, with my enhancements, vitamin A is well over two-hundred percent. Not to mention-- Oh, John, would you make some tea?” then, “Would you like a cup of tea Watson?”

“Mmm. No. Juice, please.” she bats her large blue eyes up at John.

“Tea for me. Juice for Watson. Thank you, John. Now, as I was saying . . .”

So John makes the tea. As he works, he continues to watch as Sherlock pulls out a medical journal and reads aloud. Rosie repeats him as best she can, her stubby fingers pointing at the pictures. Sherlock smiles radiantly and John nearly breaks down into tears seeing the pride plastered on his friend’s face. 

Pulling himself together, the tea and juice are served. Mrs. Hudson then joins them carrying a large tray covered in sweets and Rosie squeals in delight, trailing after the elderly landlady until they both disappear into the kitchen all whispers and giggles. John once again looks at his friend expecting a quiet, reflective moment but instead gets an unusually chatty Sherlock Holmes. 

“I already have several ideas to expand her reading and language . . . such an extraordinary child . . . can likely handle multiple languages easily . . . sucking it up like a sponge, John . . . moulded by the greatest of minds and the kindest of hearts, how could she not be extraordinary? How simple of me.”

John is so moved by Sherlock’s love for his daughter that he physically aches. It’s to his utter joy that all Sherlock can talk about is how quickly Rosie is progressing beyond other children in her age demographic and how he wants to work further with her. He almost feels bad for being so surprised by the amount of care and love his friend is capable of for Rosie. Almost, because he never _ever_ wants to stop being surprised. 

Sherlock pauses, the afternoon light falling softly over his pale face as his verdigris eyes stare into the distance while he counts on his long fingers the various ways he can explain to Rosie the chemical breakdown of orange slices and baking soda. One unruly dark curl falls over his forehead. John can’t stop staring. He’s mesmerised. And right now, he can’t imagine a life with anyone else. 

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson and Rosie rejoin them and John moves from his chair to the vacant spot on the couch next to Rosie who’s focused on adjusting her juice just right on the table. 

“Hello, beautiful. Daddy needs to talk to you, mkay?” The little blonde pigtails bob absently. “Good. So, sometimes, Sherlock and I . . . and even Mrs. Hudson, can have a bad day where we get a bit upset. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Right, and sometimes we say things that we don’t mean. Sometimes those things are a bit not good.”

“Yeah,” she says again as if on autopilot.

Sherlock’s brows raise in exasperation but he stays silent. John’s grateful. Rosie merely hums to herself pushing aside the knitted pattern from the table and placing her juice box back down and John wonders if he’s actually getting anywhere.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you sweetheart?”

“Obvsly.”

And any warmth he earlier felt for his flatmate suddenly diminishes as he hears the tantamount Holmes impertinence weave through his daughter’s sweet little voice. The detective has the humility to hide his smile behind his cuppa but Mrs. Hudson sputters a laugh so loud that half her tea is spat on the floor. John shoots her a look and she promptly moves to get a flannel. 

“So, what I’m trying to say is that the things we say here at home cannot be repeated at school.”

“OK, Daddy.” 

But she doesn’t look up and John has had enough. Placing his hand over the juice, he uses his other to turn his daughter to face him and leans down on her level to make sure she’s paying attention. All’s silent as John tries again.

“Rosie, if you continue to repeat bad things - no matter who says them - you won’t be able to go back to nursery. Do you understand?”

This time, he’s a bit gruffer than he intends. And the effect is instantaneous. A high-pitched cry erupts, ringing his ears and making him grimace in pain. Mrs. Hudson stands stunned. Rosie, completely devastated, rushes to Sherlock and throws herself into his arms. 

“Sher Sher, daddy said I can’t go back to nursery!”

“Really, John? You didn’t have to lie to the child,” Sherlock snaps disapproving.

John opens his mouth to argue, but-

“Oh, John. Look what you’ve done this time,” Mrs. Hudson’s bottom lip pouts out, “Poor baby. Is daddy a big grumpy?” she asks petting Rosie’s head gently.

Rosie nods and wipes her face on Sherlock’s shirt. He doesn’t seem to mind. John frowns.

“Seriously?” he stands and looks amazed at the other two supposed adults in the room, “This conversation _needs_ to be had. She can’t just go around being obstinate to her teachers and peers and then get all stroppy when she gets in trouble for it.”

But John’s argument crumbles when a louder and much more aggressive cry shreds what’s left of his hearing. This prompts further glares from Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson who then busy themselves entreating the child with promises of, “It’ll all be all right” and “Of course, you’ll go back to nursery sunshine.”

And John, completely at a loss, throws his hands up, “Why is everything always my fault?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I expect such things from Sherlock but not you Doctor Watson,” Mrs. Hudson chides as she scoots to the kitchen coming back with a cookie. “Look Rosie, this one’s strawberry. It even has sprinkles!”

John watches as Sherlock maneuvers Mrs. Hudson into his chair and passes Rosie off to her. The detective then strolls silently past John and grabs his coat. 

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

John blinks at the vague answer, “Out where?” 

“To solve problems. Because that’s what I do,” he pauses to make eye contact with John, “Unlike you.”

He stands there dumbfounded until he hears the door shut downstairs. Mrs. Hudson continues to coo his daughter. Rosie pouts and flashes hurt, watery eyes at him. John sighs heavily in surrender. 

-

-

It’s dark by the time she shows the creditor and the local council out of her office. What a long and unproductive day. Tamera shoos her secretary out saying she’ll be right behind. The temptation to sink in her chair and drink herself into oblivion calls, but Tamera is a strong woman. She valiantly ignores the lure and instead piles the paperwork into her bag. It’ll be fine. It will all be just fine. 

A knock on her office door startles her. Expecting her secretary who decided to wait for her after all, she turns and is stunned to find a stranger flanked by two very large men in black suits. Her face must reflect her fear because the tall, well-dressed man waves his umbrella toward a chair as he shuts the door behind himself leaving them alone. 

“I won’t hurt you, Miss James. Please, take a seat. My apologies for arriving at such a late hour, but I didn’t want to disrupt you and your business associates.”

Tamera holds her ground, “I’m fine standing, thank you.”

He frowns but sits in one of the plastic chairs. He doesn’t look dangerous but she is alone, and there are two people in the next room who can easily do her harm. She studies the man before her and feels she can take him. She paid good money for self-defence classes just last year. Her eyes skip from him to the door but this elicits a heavy sigh from the tall man who now appears severely annoyed.

“You aren’t paying attention, Miss James,” he snaps not unkindly, “I told you I’m not here to hurt you. On the contrary, I’m more of a businessman and, as such, I’m here to strike a deal with you, if you are so inclined.” 

“What kind of deal?”

“The kind that allows you complete access to build as many nurseries as you wish, anywhere you wish, so long as you adhere to my terms.”

Tamera stares, shocked and dumbstruck, “That’s absurd. No one can do that.”

The man smiles brightly, all confidence and pride, “I can.”

“Who are you?”

His smile falters and he sits back, “Let’s not be hasty, Miss James. I’m not here as a friend. As a rule, business should never be mixed with pleasure. So here is my offer: you will have access to any plot of land, any old building in any area of London you wish, given you can afford it. I will even discourage price hikes. But because you’re a reasonably level-headed and responsible person your savings will likely cover whatever you have in mind, not to mention the numerous grants for education and from local vendors.”

“You hacked into my savings?”

“No. My people gathered your information. I just read it.”

Tamera swallows thickly. He has to be lying. There’s no way he can do what he says he can do. 

“You don’t believe me.”

“What, are you a mind reader too?” she says, edging further behind her desk.

This garners a near laugh from the man, “Oh, no. It’s just a simple matter of understanding typical human behavior. You should know as you do it yourself, to a degree. Watching the person in front of you. Predicting their words or actions. Then, adjusting yourself accordingly. It’s a pity you’re a teacher. Psychology would suit you better.”

Tamera licks her lips and nods. The man’s right. She was lucky enough to grow up with a mother who taught her how to get what she wants and a father who helped her understand basic human instincts. Kill or be killed. Survival of the fittest. But do it all with control. Her head raises a fraction, “That’s it? I get access to any site I want. I’m afraid I’ll need more of an incentive than that.”

The tall man smiles again, “Good. Very good. I do love a negotiation. And you’re willing to play the game without knowing the stakes. It’s interesting, your bravery.”

“Interesting?” she parrots, realizing she’s a fool for not finding out what she has to sacrifice. 

“Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity,” he tilts his head, “and I see you agree with me, which is why it’s so interesting.” His fingers twitch and tap tap tap his umbrella, “Fine, I will pay you a handsome sum of money, in advance . . . for every year you keep the child Rosamund Mary Watson enrolled in your nursery program.”

Tamera blinks, frozen in shock, “Oh my god. I was right. That man, Mr. Holmes, he sent you here to threaten me, didn’t he?”

This makes him stand and Tamera takes the final step behind her desk, her right hand latching over the handle of her desk drawer. But instead of coming at her, as she expects, he merely stands there watching her, fingers tapping faster over the wooden handle.

“I may be many things, Miss James, but I am not a fool. I know you’ve been moving to your desk so you can, very obviously, reach for that particular drawer. But there isn’t a weapon for me in there. No, that weapon, a small pink flask filled with cheap whiskey, is your own personal weapon - one I can use to ruin you if I so choose.” Tamera stills. The man smirks. “But I would rather not, you see, it’s rare to find someone just above average in a world so simple. Now, I will one last time entreat you to accept my offer so I can leave and we can both happily carry on with our lives.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope which he slowly passes to her. Tamera takes it and opens it to reveal several large bills clipped together. Her eyes widen and she takes a deep, shaky breath.

“Two-hundred thousand pounds seems a sufficient sum, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It does. But why here? Why don’t her parents just enroll her in one of the more expensive nurseries?”

He shrugs, “I’m not the child’s parent nor do I make such decisions but I believe it’s because the child is happy here. And she will remain happy.”

The last is a promise said kindly and assuredly, made to no one in particular, but meant as a warning specifically to Tamera. She’d be a fool not to notice. And when she doesn’t immediately respond, the man does finally take a step forward, his face dark and dangerous in the shadows of the night. 

“I don’t like to repeat myself, Miss James, but I want to make certain you understand. You will keep Rosie Watson enrolled in your facility no matter her eccentricities. In return, you will be paid annually and have full access to potential nursery sites. Do we have an agreement?”

Tamera fingers the packet of money again. She’d be a fool to turn down such a deal. Money and unlimited access just for keeping a child on at her school. Duh. But the man doesn’t leave and Tamera finally opens her mouth to strike a deal with a very polished and well-spoken devil. 

“I agree.”

He smiles like a satisfied cat, “Lovely. Have a good evening, Mrs. James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've covered lack of sleep, goodnight kisses, losing one's temper, John's POV, sickness, and repeating things. Any ideas of the trials and tribulations Sherlock and John can encounter while raising Rosie? I'm thinking 3-4 more chapters.


End file.
